The Eye of the Kami

The crowd was still cheering raucously as he made his way toward the front. Goto was eyeing him with a prideful look, while Kiro, who stood behind, smirked even wider than before. He held in his hand an old practice sword, the same that Maeta had used for his strike.

“Not bad, eh?” Goto said to him as he approached.

“Well done,” replied Gin stiffly.

“If you would like another sword, it can be arranged. I don't want my victory to be tarnished by naysayers who will say I won because I used my family's sword.”

“This one will do,” Gin said calmly, taking a practice sword from Kiro. “May I have the scabbard as well?”

“Why?” Goto shot back, surprised by this strange request.

Gin merely shrugged. “Surely the scabbard cannot cut by itself, can it?”

Goto glared at him suspiciously for a moment and then nodded. Kiro handed him the scabbard. Gintaro then turned to approach the boar. It was an ugly sight, as the cuts made by Maeta and Goto had done considerable damage. There was a growing pool of blood below the beast, and he could easily smell the iron tinge.

He lifted the sword to his eyes and examined it closely. It felt heavier than what he was used to, but he conceded that the added weight could be from non-use. It had been a long time since he had used a sword, and even longer since he lived by one. It felt strange, but at the same time, his hand caressed the hilt like it was a long-lost heirloom. The edge was not as sharp as he would have preferred, and it was chipped in a few places, which denoted the lackluster quality. However, in a town like this, he was not likely to find much better. It would have to do.

He turned back to Goto, who was growing impatient.

“Would you like to add to the wager?” Gin asked aloud so that most in the crowd could hear him. “A week’s worth of rice if I best your cut? Two weeks to you if I fail?”

Goto turned red and scowled. He knew that he could not refuse such a challenge made in public and save face in front of his friends and the village.

“What makes you so confident? Planning to cheat?”

“I'm just trying to show some community pride. It's customary to wager on these kinds of things, no?”

Goto eyed the crowd that was now quieting to hear his response. His face turned an even brighter shade of red. “Fine! But do not delay in your payment!”

Gin nodded and turned back toward the animal. Slowly, he returned the sword to its wooden scabbard. He took a deep breath and exhaled so that the tension in his muscles faded away.

“To think, after all these years, I profane the sword yet again,” he thought bitterly.

He lowered the sheathed sword to his left side and gripped the scabbard tightly. From there he lowered himself into a combat stance, with the sword remaining at his left hip. His right hand reached over and grasped the hilt of the sword, resting lightly upon its surface.

“He's doing battojutsu!” someone in the crowd cried.

“Is that permitted?” he heard the raspy voice of Kiro ask nervously.

“It's a festival contest! This is not a sword school ceremony! Let him cut how he wants!” countered Maeta.

Gin was indeed planning on battojutsu, which was merely the act of drawing the sword out of its sheath. Most did not think that it added speed or power to the sword strike, but he thought differently.

His eyes squinted as he focused on his target. His mind was drowning out all the distractions around him. The voices from the crowd were quieting, and the pounding of his heart was growing louder. He could feel his muscles tingling, growing more electric as he contracted them. In half a moment he would release all that energy, and it had to be enough.

“Please…” he whispered.

It happened in such a way that the first perceptible sign was a splash. The bottom half of the boar had dropped down into the blood puddle below, the upper half remained nearly motionless, hanging from the post. Gin flicked the sword down to his right side, wicking the blood from it before smoothly sheathing it in a seamless motion. The hilt of the sword hit the edge of the scabbard with a soft click. He then straightened and turned around.

“Thank you,” he said with a sigh.

The crowd was paralyzed. Most of what could be heard were faint whispers and people scrambling to get a better look. Gin looked over at Goto, whose face showed a mixture of shock and fear. He walked over and handed Goto the practice sword.

“How?” Goto managed to mutter, cautiously accepting the sword.

“I cut upward and diagonally at the opposite angle of your cut which came downwards and diagonally,” Gin stated matter-of-factly. “Don't be too disappointed, I only cut slightly more than you did. You already did half the work for me.”

“See!” Kiro interrupted. “See! He did cheat! He cut through your cut!”

This time Goto’s wrath was directed at someone other than Gintaro. “Shut up you fool! Do you realize what you just said? He cut through the exact place where my cut stopped. Do you realize how difficult that is?”

The sudden outburst from Goto silenced Kiro who shrank backward fearfully. Goto's eyes were dead set on Gin, but this time the expression he had was different. There was some semblance of respect in it.

“So, you fought for the Shōgun?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Gin replied. “I did.”

Goto stared at him for another moment and then nodded. It was as if they had come to some kind of silent understanding. “If anything troublesome ever happens in this village, I'll want your help.”

Gin bowed respectfully. “I'll do what I can, but I'm no longer a man of the sword.”

“A shame,” Goto replied, glancing back at what was left of the boar. “I always wanted to be a samurai, to earn a glorious warrior’s death. But, as the firstborn son, I am the heir to my father’s legacy and position, which is not at all a bad station in life. If I work hard, perhaps one day I'll be a district official or even a lord. Then, I'll have samurai of my own.” He sighed and looked back at Gin earnestly. “Even so, I find that I sometimes dream of such a life. ‘The way of the sword is the way of truth, they say.”

“There are many truths,” Gin returned. “But what would I know of it? I was never a samurai.”

“Then what were you?” Goto asked, now staring back at him intensely.

Gin lowered his eyes and paused before responding. “Something else.”

Gintaro left the festival immediately after the contest. He was awarded a small prize of sake and rice for his victory and a sealed parchment commemorating the occasion. He would receive his remuneration from Goto by the week’s end. The crowd was much more subdued than it had been, perhaps because many had bet on Goto to win, or perhaps because the sake was starting to wear off. No one interrupted his departure except Maeta, who was too drunk to speak. He just patted him on the back and laughed. Gin found his daughter on the way home, and the two walked quietly back up the ridge. He assumed that Yukiana was reminiscing on the night’s events as she was lost in thought. He, on the other hand, had soured upon reflection, thinking that he had revealed too much in his brazen display.

He truly desired the trust of others as he had spent so much time in Kokoro relatively friendless. But at what cost? Would they ever trust him, or would it be worse than before? Would they be more fearful of him after what they had just witnessed? Goto for one seemed changed. But what if word got out? What if he was discovered? It was true that they were so far from any semblance of the life he had before that it would be nearly impossible. But what if by fate someone, somewhere found out? He hadn't changed his name. It was just a boar, a game, a silly festival. Surely this would not lead to any trouble, would it?

Just then Yukiana looked over at him and smiled. It was a rare, peaceful smile that eliminated all his anxieties at once. “Congratulations!” she said. Her eyes sparkled like the starlight above them. At that moment he forgot about everything. It was just them, father and daughter.

“Thank you, but it was only a lucky stroke.” He then suddenly turned his face from her, for he hated to have to look at her when he lied.